


Don't Lose Touch

by neversaydie



Series: All My Own Stunts [4]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Clint Has Issues, Clint Needs a Hug, Depression, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Natasha Needs a Hug, Protective Natasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 08:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3284369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neversaydie/pseuds/neversaydie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The coffee pot is full. </p>
<p>The coffee pot is overflowing. Too much water. Steam hissing up from the burner as thin liquid spills down the side of the glass. It'll stain the ceiling like cigarette smoke. He should turn it off, clean up his mess. </p>
<p>Clint is lying on the couch, curled up on his side and still in his tac gear from… from however long ago he came here. He watches the coffee pot steam with glassy eyes, sleepless and uncaring. Has he slept? He must have put coffee in the pot at some point. Maybe he can just take a rest for a few minutes and then deal with it. </p>
<p>He's so tired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Lose Touch

The coffee pot is full.

The coffee pot is overflowing. Too much water. Steam hissing up from the burner as thin liquid spills down the side of the glass. It'll stain the ceiling like cigarette smoke. He should turn it off, clean up his mess.

Clint is lying on the couch, curled up on his side and still in his tac gear from… from however long ago he came here. He watches the coffee pot steam with glassy eyes, sleepless and uncaring. Has he slept? He must have put coffee in the pot at some point. Maybe he can just take a rest for a few minutes and then deal with it. He's so tired.

He blinks. When he opens his eyes the coffee pot is dry and the steam from the burner is steadily turning into smoke. The animal part of his brain that still knows fire equals danger forces electrical impulses into his rubber limbs and propels him across the kitchen to shut off the burner. It takes him three tries to lift his arm and press the button. Everything is heavy. He's tired.

The kitchen smells bad now. It didn't smell great to begin with, musty from disuse and whatever he'd managed to leave in the fridge the last time he was here. This is an old, old bolthole Clint barely remembered that he kept, wasn't really aware of it until he found his feet taking him in this direction. One room/kitchen and a bathroom. No bed, though there's an inflatable mattress under the couch, he thinks. He doesn't remember anymore, he didn't even remember the fucking apartment.

It's the best way to keep a secret, really. If he doesn't know about it, then nobody else will either. They won't be able to find him.

He doesn't understand why he wants to be alone. It's another animal thing, the urge to crawl into a hole and hide when wounded, to find somewhere quiet to conceal his weakness before the predators can begin circling. To find somewhere secluded to die in peace.

He stares blankly at the burned-out coffee pot as he thinks about it. About crawling away to die. Through the grey haze of his brain, he's pretty sure that he doesn't want to die (he doesn't _want_ anything), he just doesn't care if he doesn't. It's not comforting. He wishes Tony were here so someone would understand what he means.

Somehow he finds himself back on the couch. He slumps sideways, pulls his sluggish knees up to his chest. Closes his eyes. Perhaps he sleeps.

He's so tired.

*

The coffee pot is empty.

The apartment smells like coffee, not burnt plastic.

Clint blinks heavily and it takes him a few seconds to summon the energy to frown. There's something wrong with this picture.

It takes him another minute to force his head to turn, every sinew in his neck feeling tight as piano wire from the shitty angle he's been lying at. Natasha is sitting at the rickety kitchen table. He doesn't even do a second take. Of course Natasha is sitting at his table.

"Welcome back." She has two huge Starbucks cups on the table in front of her. She must have gone out and come back, couldn't have been carrying them around with her. Must have taken her a few days to find this place.

"How long was I out?" That's what he intends to say, but his tongue is dry and heavy in his mouth and he's pretty sure it comes out all vowels.

As usual, Natasha understands him anyway.

"It's been over a week." She fishes a water bottle from the bag at her feet and walks over, crouching down and hauling him up without wasting the time wondering if he can sit up on his own. She uncaps the bottle and presses it into his hand, waiting patiently for his fingers to curl around it before she lets go.

"I don't know how long you were asleep before, but I've been here for two days. Drink, you're dehydrated."

"I broke the coffee pot." He slurs hoarsely, before doing as he's told and taking a gulp of water. His hand is shaking so badly he spills half of it down his chin, but Natasha just pulls the sleeve of her green hoodie over her hand and cleans him up.

"That's why I brought coffee." She smiles softly, the smile only Clint gets to see, and it makes something shift slightly in his dead man's chest.

He turns his head to follow her as she walks back to the table, and only realises there's a blanket covering him when it falls down to pool in his lap. He's still wearing his uniform, leather and Kevlar have left welts in his skin by now. He reaches out to touch the patch on his inner arm where his string guard has chafed and manages to cringe when he feels his skin is tacky to touch. Old sweat. He must smell terrible.

"Drink, Barton." Natasha prompts from somewhere far away. Clint robotically raises the bottle and takes another sip, and this time it's easier not to spill all over himself.

It takes a few more prompted gulps of water before the fuzz in his brain clears a little and Clint suddenly becomes aware that he's cold. He fumbles clumsily with the blanket and Natasha twitches a nod, like it's a good thing that he's realised his apartment is arctic. She produces a few pills from her bag and holds them out, and it's the first thing that makes Clint twitch away with any kind of force.

"No psychs." She promises softly, turning the pills over so he can inspect them. "Vitamins, minerals, iron. You're malnourished, these will help you feel better."

"I…"

"I swear, Clint. No psychs." Natasha tips more pills into her palm, doubles of the three already there. "We'll take them together, alright?"

He swallows through his still-dry throat, but slowly nods. They take the pills together, mirror images and mirror pills. Natasha's hands are steady while Clint's shake as they pass the water bottle between them, but they're as two sides to the same coin as they've always been.

Strike Team Delta, one strong as steel and one shattered into pieces. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Does your hot water work?" Natasha breaks into his thoughts again and Clint shrugs. He doesn't know where the hell he is, let alone what kind of condition the pipes are in.

Getting into the shower is like moving through treacle. His feet are stuck in wet cement, and Natasha doesn't waste time cajoling him gently into movement. She shoves and pushes and unfastens his uniform with brutal efficiency, then pulls her own clothes off with the same clinical touch. Being naked around each other is nothing new, and Clint finds he appreciates her presence when she bullies him under the slightly chilly shower spray.

There's no shampoo, but Natasha scrubs his hair with the bodywash she must have brought with her considering that it doesn't smell ancient. It feels like she's touching him through a sheet of thick plastic, but it's still _touch_. Surprisingly gentle fingers work over his skin, soaping him up and rinsing him off like he's a child with a fever. He starts to feel his blood circulating again by the second time she's washing the grease out of his hair, and he leans his head back on her shoulder for a second in gratitude.

It feels like she's touching him through cellophane by the time she's scrubbing a towel roughly over his head, and that feels like coming back to life. She lets him dress himself this time in the clothes she's brought for him, baggy old sweats and the purple hoodie that was a gift, though he can't remember who gave it to him now.

He's tired again, so tired.

"Put the coffee in the microwave and heat it up." She knows it's easier to follow instructions when he gets like this, and Clint does his job like always ( _good soldier_ ). It takes him three times longer than it should, but Natasha is patient with his fumbling.

By the time he sets cups on the table, a bowl of instant noodles has appeared from somewhere. He's pretty sure he must be in a dangerous place if his observational skills are this blunted, but Natasha's here to watch out for him. He glances out of the window as he sits down, trying to avoid actually having to put food in his mouth, and frowns at the strange light filtering in.

"Snow?"

"For the past week. You slept through the storm of the century. That's why it took me so long to find you." She pushes the bowl towards him pointedly and Clint reluctantly picks up his fork. "I didn't know you had this place."

"Neither did I." He admits, swishing his fork uselessly through the limp noodles. He feels their pain. "I think after New York… I think I forgot some stuff afterwards."

Natasha doesn't push, she just nods and lets him sort through his thoughts quietly. Clint remembers the safehouse in Bolivia, losing agents, punching the wall until his knuckles broke and Natasha holding him silently with arms of gossamer steel until he stopped crying. He remembers Russia, Natasha going silent and trembling in the training ground of some abandoned bootcamp, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her and _Tasha, Tasha, Tasha_ until she snapped out of it and looked at him with dead eyes.

They're totally different. Natasha is a steady presence while Clint pushes and prods until he finds out how to help. Even before his diagnosis, Natasha had already known how to deal with him, had already instinctively known there was something there that she needed to _manage_ , not force out of him.

Clint wishes he could take back all the times he'd screamed at her to _leave him the fuck alone_ because he didn't understand what was going on in his head and he just wanted to hurt something. Wishes he could take back all the times she'd found him drunk and laughing at nothing or held him steady while he puked up pills he'd thought would make the hurricane in his head slow down. All the things he'd hidden from Phil because he wanted to be _good enough_ for him, Natasha had seen. Every crack in his armour had been papered over by her fingertips.

She's still here. It makes the anxious knotting of his stomach relax a little.

"What I said to Steve…" Clint blurts it out the second it crosses his mind. He has no filter when he's like this, he's too tired to censor himself.

"He knows you didn't mean it." Natasha promises softly, in the tone of voice that leaves no room for argument. "You still shouldn't have said it, but he knows you didn't mean it."

"I should apologise."

"Yes, you should." She looks pointedly at the noodles and Clint grudgingly takes a bite. "I think he's depressed."

"About Barnes?" He's not surprised when Natasha nods. "Can't blame him."

Silence falls between them for a few minutes (maybe longer, Clint's too tired to tell), before Clint has worked his way through five bites of noodles and Natasha lets up the pressure a little. He takes a sip of coffee and yeah, it's kind of burnt from being reheated but it's still the best thing he's tasted in over a week. His tastebuds are waking up, maybe the rest of him will too. Even if he's still so fucking tired.

"Are you ready to take some meds now?" She says it levelly, as if his answer won't be a big deal. Clint isn't ready, not really, but he nods anyway and Natasha goes to her bag to dig out his medication.

"Is Phil…" The words dry up in his throat and he trails off. Natasha presses pills into his hand and pushes his cup of coffee towards him.

"He's still on assignment. I let him know what was happening, but he couldn't get back because of the weather."

"Storm." Clint nods vaguely, staring at the pills in his hand. That knot in his stomach is back again. If he concentrates, he can feel the itch growing under his skin. The itch that makes him want to run. His heart picks up as he stares and stares.

This looks bad. It feels worse. He's so _fucking tired why can't they leave him alone_.

"No." He drops the pills with a sudden electric jerk of his hand, and for once Natasha looks shocked. "Tasha, I can't."

"You need to." She picks the tablets up again and dusts them off before she presses them more firmly into his palm. Maybe if she presses them hard enough they'll break the skin and he won't have to make the decision for himself. Cut him open and shove the chemicals inside his plastic hide. "Pteechka, you need to take them."

"I-I don't… I… I'm not _me_ when I take them."

"Clint, listen to me." Natasha folds her hands over his and leans down to look him in the eye. Her hair is wet and scraped back into a ponytail from where she'd forced him into the shower. She'll force him into this if she has to. "I know you hate this, I know you hate them. But you need to get into a stable place again before you can look for something else. You know that. You understand, don't you?"

"I don't want to be medicated again, I don't—"

"Clint, if you want to be in the field then you need to be on _something_." She actually looks worried, like she's afraid he's throwing his career away. "Or maybe you don't, okay, but this kind of rapid swinging is unsustainable. You can't drink yourself stupid one week and lie there comatose the next. You can't be out there like that, it's not safe."

"Tasha—"

"I don't want to be out there without you again." The tremble in her voice shocks Clint into meeting her eyes. There's a vulnerability in them that only he sees, and even then only when Natasha allows him to. She's being honest. "Please, Clint. Please take them for a little while longer. We'll find something better, but please, just for now."

Clint's hands are shaking when Natasha lets them go. He keeps eye contact for a long moment, still doesn't break it when he slowly, reluctantly puts the pills into his mouth and swallows them with a gulp of bitter coffee.

It's automatic to open his mouth to allow Natasha to check he's really swallowed the medication, but she doesn't. Instead he finds himself with arms around his neck and his face full of damp red hair.

It's only then that the ice in his chest breaks and he finally, finally starts to cry.

Natasha's hair is already wet, she won't mind.


End file.
